


The Diva

by thegraytigress



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, F/M, Romance, Romanogers Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 07:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5577194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Take me away," she whispers. She's begging. She's used to having all her wants filled immediately. Her needs, though, rarely are. She's not sure which this is. And she's not sure what she expects. He's a complete stranger. He's no one, and she's as far from that as possible. But she wishes and wants. "Take me away. Please."</p><p>Part of the 2015 Romanogers Secret Santa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Diva

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spanglecap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spanglecap/gifts).



> **DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.
> 
>  **RATING:** T (for adult situations)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This was part of the Romanogers 2015 Secret Santa on tumblr and was for the lovely [spanglecap](http://spanglecap.tumblr.com). Extra special thanks to [vbprodz](http://vbprodz.tumblr.com) for providing some lovely [inspiration](http://vbprodz.tumblr.com/post/133292415658/requested-by-as12354cxbw-romanogersthe-diva) for this one. And thanks for faith2nyc for helping with the content! Also thanks so much to [el-capitan-rogers](http://elcapitan-rogers.tumblr.com) for this gorgeous [gifset](http://elcapitan-rogers.tumblr.com/post/136185040311/romanogers-christmas-miracle-spanglecap-based-on)!
> 
> Herein we have a Romanogers AU meets the Chanel no. 5 commercial (with Nicole Kidman – watch it on youtube) meets _Black Swan_ meets _Titanic_. Enjoy, all!

_“All I ask is if this is my last night with you_  
_Hold me like I’m more than just a friend_  
_Give me a memory I can use_  
_Take me by the hand while we do what lovers do_  
_It matters how this ends_  
_’Cause what if I never love again?”_  
– Adele, “All I Ask”

 _Run._   It’s all she can think.

_Run._

“Miss Romanova!  Miss Romanova!  Look this way!  Please!”

She’s not going to look.  She doesn’t care if that’s rude, if ticket sales will take a dive because the public’s not getting their quota of her.  All around her on the red carpet the cameras are flashing and snapping, and people are shouting through the night.  Some are adoring fans, she knows, and while she appreciates their support, she no longer adores it in return.  She knows she should be grateful.  This is the premiere of her latest movie, and from the early projections and the critical reception, it’s already a huge success.  There’s a great deal of buzz, rumors and gossip about Oscars and tension behind the scene and love affair with her co-star (again, this has happened), and she doesn’t want to deal with any of it.  Not anymore.

_Run._

“Miss Romanova!  Is it true you’re seeing–”

“Miss Romanova, how does it feel to have your private life constantly examined like this?”  She can hardly believe the gall as she pushes down the line, her gown of shimmering white sequins and soft pink feathers rustling around her.  Ahead her agent looks at her, watching her at the end of the red carpet by the theater’s entrance.  There’s no doubt in her mind that he’s expecting her to follow him.  This is her career, after all, her life.  She’s world-famous, an actress and dancer of the highest caliber.  Young and beautiful and highly sought-after.  The hunger for her attention, both professionally and socially, is overpowering.  It’s a tempest, an endless flurry of work and play, a whirlwind of parties and performances, and she’s lost in it more and more.  She’s indulged a great deal, far too much, gone in so deeply that she can no longer see what she wanted in the first place.  It’s lost its meaning, so this is simply another premiere.  Another red carpet and press line.  Another moment in which she dons a mask for the sake of an ever-growing audience that does not see her.

The mask isn’t right anymore.  She can’t wear it like she has.

“Miss Romanova!  Are you excited to dance _The Black Widow?_ ”

“What can you tell us about it?  Is it true she’s a role written especially for you?”

“Can you be as cold and heartless as the character requires?”

“Can you become the Black Widow?”

She can’t take it.  With a flutter of fabric, she turns and does as her heart bids her to do.  She runs.  The cameras flash more and more furiously, and there is a roar of dismay behind her.  Her agent is shouting after her, and she can hear the anger in his tone, like he’s seen this coming and is nothing but disappointed.  She doesn’t care.  She can’t stay.  _Run._

It’s crazy, stupid, reckless.  _Madness._ And it’s madness outside the theater, the press scrambling over itself in a frenzy to get to her.  Her agent is bellowing over the din.  “Natalia!  Natalia!  What are you doing?  Stop!  Where are you going?  You can’t leave!  _Stop!_ ”  She doesn’t answer and doesn’t stop.  This isn’t what she wants anymore.  No obligations.  No commitments and no lies.  She’s a bird, not a spider.  _She’ll fly._

The street beyond the red carpet is closed thanks to the premiere and the crowd of celebrities attending it, so she surges through the limousines lined up at the sidewalk.  Her dress snags and rips, but she makes it out into the empty road.  There she stands, surrounded by light, by the people who want to trap her in their cage.  _Run._   Where will she go?  She decides it doesn’t matter.  _Away.  Anywhere.  Away from this.  Run._ Gathering her abundant skirts, she picks a direction and does just that.  It’s not so easy in her heels and the tight corset of her gown.  She’s a dancer, though, so she’s used to being light and fleet.  Her red hair comes loose of its bindings, flowing down her back in waves, and her gown streams through the night.  No one catches her as she escapes.  She won’t let them.

Down the street where traffic still hums, there is a taxi.  She sprints toward it, not pausing even as cars honk at her and people gawk.  She grabs the back passenger door and wrenches it open.  Then she’s sliding inside.  “Drive!” she cries.

“What?

There’s a man beside her.  She doesn’t notice until then, hardly looks, doesn’t care, the prospect of stolen freedom blurring her senses.  “I said: drive!” she barks, more to the awestruck driver than to the man.  “Drive now!”

A pair of horrified eyes glances in the mirror, wide and questioning.  Down the street the mob comes, the mob of cameras and her agent and handlers, the mob of captors who will eagerly take her back.  Her heart pounds and she can’t breathe.  The cameras are flashing.  They’ll see her!  “Please,” she begs, desperate.  “Please go!”

The mob’s nearly upon them, and her unwitting passenger surges forward in his seat.  “Go,” he commands.

The driver speeds away before the paparazzi can get any closer.  She’s jolted back in her seat, trembling with the rush of it all, with relief and excitement, and she laughs.  It’s light, airy, and triumphant.  She watches as the taxi surges through the traffic and the crowd is left behind.  She’s not going back.  _Stolen freedom._   She’s _never_ going back.

“Mind telling me what this is all about?”

The question pulls her from the thrill of it, and she turns back from the rear window.  Now she sees the man beside her.  He’s her age, perhaps a tad older, dressed in old jeans and a well-worn leather jacket that hardly hides a slender yet impressively muscular physique.  Thick, dirty blond hair is brushed neatly into place.  He has a prominent cheek bones, a thin nose, and a strong jaw covered in a well-kept beard.  His lips are the kissable sort, plush and pink and inviting.  And his eyes are the brightest blue, clear and crystalline even in this dull light.  They seemingly glow, vibrant, _stunning_ really, unlike any eyes she’s ever seen.  They’re kind.  Strong.  Noble.  A proverbial window to the soul.  And if that’s the case, this soul beside her was nothing but beautiful.

She’s lost again, lost in the silence now and this small distance between her and this stranger.  It feels infinite.  She doesn’t want it to be.

He narrows his gaze.  “Look, I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing–”

That’s impossible.  _Everyone_ knows her.  “You don’t know who I am?”

His brow furrows quizzically, and he looks over again, like he’s trying to place her.  “No,” he says after a beat.  “Should I?”

At first, she wonders if he’s playing her, playing at some sort of game.  They’ve hardly met, and she’s lived a life surrounded by people who use her for her fame and who she uses in turn.  As she looks into his sweet eyes, though, something inside her eases, and the night is vast and filled with possibilities.  “I’m Natal…”  She stops herself just in time, thinks, _realizes_ that things happen for a reason.  That she has run here for a reason.  “I’m Nat,” she finishes.

He cocks an eyebrow.  “Just Nat?”

She nods.

He stares a moment more, doubtful.  Then he nods.  “Alright.  I’m Steve.”

 _Steve._   She likes that name.   _Steve._   And suddenly she wants.  It’s a pull in her stomach, a flutter in her heart, an innocent desire to _feel_ that she hasn’t known in a long time.  _Run.  Fly._ “Will you take me away?”

_“What?”_

“Take me away,” she whispers.  She’s begging.  She’s used to having all her wants filled immediately.  Her needs, though, rarely are.  She’s not sure which this is.  And she’s not sure what she expects.  He’s a complete stranger, save for the unabashed compassion in his eyes.  He’s no one, and she’s as far from that as possible.

But she wishes and wants.  “Take me away.  Please.”

He doubts.  He fears and wonders and tries to figure her out.  In the end, though, he agrees.

* * *

His name is Steve Rogers.  He lives in a brownstone in Brooklyn.  She’s never been anywhere like here.  It’s plain and simple, without flourishment or flair, very suiting to him even if she feels like a fish out of water.  She supposes it’s not too late to go back, but even as they climb the steps to his apartment, she can’t bring herself to do it.  This is a choice she has made, even if she’s not entirely sure why she’s made it, and she’s not so humble as to think herself wrong.  Adventures are hardly had by those who easily surrender.  Her life would not be as amazing as it was had she done that.  So she follows him, eagerly awaiting validation that she’s right.

Their pace is tedious, and that frustrates her until she realizes why.  They go slowly because he’s hurt.  He favors his right leg and he uses a cane.  She’s surprised by that, by such a disability on a young man.  She’s not disgusted, though, particularly not when he climbs every one of those steps like nothing slows him down.  Again, though, this is something with which she has no experience.  Her body has always been her instrument, something she plays perfectly to achieve the illusion she needs as an actress or a dancer.  His is damaged, and she can’t fathom that.  This is what happens when you fly from your world.  Everything is new and strange and raw.

Perhaps against his better judgment, he lets her inside his apartment.  It’s very small and modest, a hidden place, she thinks, and suddenly she finds her validation.  Even though she doesn’t know what she was looking for when she ran, she’s certain this is where she’ll find it.  She can tell right away that he’s an artist of some sort.  There are pads and sketchbooks all over, drawings hanging above a desk and on his walls.  She looks at them.  He’s very good.  She can also tell he’s somewhat old-fashioned, because aside from an old flip cell-phone, there’s a surprising lack of technology in his place.  No computer.  No television.  It’s as though he’s an old soul from a different era.  That probably explains why he hasn’t heard of her.  He asks her if she wants to use his outdated phone since she has nothing with her (not even money).  She immediately says no.  He asks if there’s anyone he wants her to contact on her behalf then, and she still says no.  He asks her again what she wants.  “I don’t know.”

“Why were you running?”  He’s staring at her curiously, at her elegant gown and fashionable jewelry that’s more expensive than the lot of his possessions.  “Are you in trouble?  Was someone hurting you?”

She brushes that ridiculous suggestion aside.  “No.  No, nothing like that.”

“Then why?”

She knows why, but it’s hard to say.  “I needed to get away.”

Surprisingly he seems satisfied with that.  He limps to the bathroom down the little hall and returns with a first aid kit.  “Your leg,” he says when she regards him curiously.  She looks down and finds her gown was ripped across her thigh, and she’s bleeding.  “Here.  Go sit down.”

She does.  She settles herself in one of the chairs in his small living area.  He strips his coat off, revealing the muscles she knew were there under a t-shirt, and slowly comes over.  She wants to ask about him, but he’s affording her the respect of keeping his questions to herself, so she’ll do the same.  It doesn’t seem appropriate or necessary, at any rate.  He kneels in front of her though she can see that’s difficult for him.  In the dim light of his apartment, his eyes still glow.  His hair has come loose of its neat position to drape over his forehead.  “Is it alright if I do this?”

It is.  They still don’t know each other, but she’s felt nothing but attraction to him since the cab.  This is moving fast, she thinks, and she has a feeling that’s not the life he lives, not in this small place filled with his still-lifes and portraits and his lamed leg and quiet disposition.  But he still touches her when she nods, pushing the ripped fabric aside to see the wound.  It’s nothing, and even she knows it.  He’s conscientious and careful, though, as his callused fingers settle to her skin.  The touch is nothing short of electrifying, and she’s realizing why more and more.  She’s lived a life of having what she wants, who she wants, but this is… _different._   He doesn’t know her.  He doesn’t know her name, her reputation, her power.

And she doesn’t want him to.

He’s careful and methodical as he cleans the little gash.  He applies a salve and bandages it.  He does all that with a sort of precision and confidence from someone used to the task.  When he’s through, he lets her go, and her skin aches where his fingers were.  “I’ll call another cab for you,” he finally declares.  In the quiet, his voice is enchanting, a deep rumble that shakes her.  “You should go.”

“Go where?” she whispers.

“Go back.”

She can’t.  She won’t.  Not before she’s even been free.  “There’s nothing I want there.”

He looks up.  “You can’t stay.”

“Why not?”

He stares at her.  Stares and struggles.  “I don’t know.”

She stands, the dress swishing around her.  He rises, too, and that distance between them, so firm and defined since the cab, shrinks.  The apartment is so quiet, worlds away from the hustle of the life she leads.  Everything is not quite real because of that, too sharp yet fuzzy and indistinct at once.  She feels drunk in a way she never has from alcohol, giddy and jubilant yet sultry and seductive all at once.  He may not know her power, but she does.  “If I stay, will you dance with me?”

His eyes fill with surprise, an anxious sort that instantly makes her want to allay his fears.  “I can’t dance.”

The distance closes even more because she steps closer.  “I’ll show you how,” she promises.  “I’m a dancer.  I’ll teach you.”

He hesitates.  She can see he wants.  She may not know him, nothing beyond his handsome face and kind eyes and wounded leg and the drawings hanging all over his world, but she knows this.  She’s always been very perceptive, very keen at reading other people.  There’s a tiny lick of his lips and flick of his gaze up and down her body.  She reaches out, the diamonds of the ring on her hand and the bracelet on her wrist catching the light of his place enough to sparkle.  He watches that like it’s a dream, not quite real but so vivid he can’t look away.  Tentatively he takes her hand, and their fingers weave into each other.  Hers are soft, pampered even, from the life she’s lived.  His are as rough as she felt before, thick and sinewy, the sort that have known hard work and adversity.  Yet they fit together perfectly.  They both see that, and it’s all they can do to breathe.

“Show me how,” he implores.

She is a ballerina, and she has danced with some of the best partners the world over.  And she is an actress, a very good one, so she knows how to _seem_ genuine.  But there is nothing but _genuine sincerity_ in her heart as she slides an arm across his shoulders.  They’re very broad, his shoulders, as strong and muscled as she thought, and she feels power ripple beneath his shirt.  She steps closer against him, flush to his chest, and his hand automatically comes to the small of her back.  Her dress is cut low there, and she again feels every press of his fingers.  They stand as such a moment, an endless moment, it seems, because time has all but stopped to them.  “Do you believe things happen for a reason?” she asks.

“Sometimes,” he whispers.

“Then there’s a reason I ran and a reason I ran into you.”  She closes her eyes.  “Dance with me.”

He does.  It’s slow and tentative at first, but she holds his gaze, and he holds hers.  He holds her body, too, holds her close and tightly through this simple waltz.  There’s no music save for the beating of their hearts, the swish of her dress against his rug and the steady pace of his breath against her hair as they slip closer together.  And when it’s over, she’s kissing him.  His lips are as soft as she imagined, and he tastes of mint and smells just a bit of leather and charcoal, like the smudges she noticed on his middle and index fingers of his right hand when he helped her from the cab and opened all of the doors for her and guided her up the steps even though he was the one who struggled.  He is sweet and uncertain but only at first.  The gentle kiss deepens.  He opens his mouth more to her, and she takes.  She takes because she always has.  Perhaps she has grown to despise the life she lives, the exposure and the constant adulation and the demands of it all, but it has spoiled her.  She takes, and who is he to deny her?

 _No one.  A stranger._   And she has a feeling as he kisses back that he won’t deny her anything.

As slow as their dance is, the moments that follow are anything but.  It’s a frantic need to undress, unveil, reveal.  Her gown slips to the floor.  His shirt is yanked over his head.  Kisses are frenzied, deep and passionate.  His hands are everywhere, too much and not enough, and she cries out as he holds her to him, worshipping the long column of her neck and the soft, tender flesh of her shoulders and throat.  He’s so strong, even with his lamed leg, that he carries her to his bed.  And there they lay, losing themselves in one another in this hidden place as the world goes on outside.

* * *

She stays with him.

She knows she shouldn’t.  This is crazy, foolish, reckless.  _Madness._   But she can’t bring herself to leave, and he doesn’t ask her to go. 

They’re lovers.  There have been others.  In her line of work, affairs are common, simply part of it all.  Relationships come and go, burning brightly and dying quickly.  They, like so much else in her world, are superficial, shallow and meaningless lies for show and status.  They’re fodder for the tabloids, sterling in an environment where attention is the best currency, sometimes even orchestrated for the purpose of generating gossip.  This is one of the reasons she ran, one of the reasons she needs more.  A love affair that’s hers.  Something secret.  Something real.

This is real.  And it’s the biggest secret in the world apparently.  No one knows where she went or who she’s with.  Her agent, normally so adept at lies and embellishments, is floundering for a believable explanation as to why she disappeared.  And the tabloids are running absolutely wild with speculation.  Where has she gone?  Did she finally crack under the pressure of her whirlwind life?  Is it the role of _The Black Widow_ that has her spooked?  Another failed relationship?  She watches it from afar this time rather than standing in its spotlight.  It’s odd, this perspective, but she loves it.  It’s liberating in a way she’s forgotten.  This is a fantasy, a dream, what she was looking for even if she didn’t know that at the time.

And he’s its center.  The walls come down between them as they make love again and again.  His fingers find all of her secrets, his lips trace her lies and kiss them away into truths.  _Natalia Alianovna Romanova._   The greatest ballerina and one of the most sought after actresses in the world.  A diva in the truest sense.  That doesn’t mean anything to him.  He reacts with surprise when she tells him, and she thinks he still doesn’t quite understand.  That’s exactly what she wants.  She doesn’t want him to _know_ that person, the diva.  She wants him to know Nat.  She wants him to _love_ Nat.

 _And he does._   It’s a worshipful thing, passionate and true.  It’s easy and wonderful, like flying high and dancing hard and running fast.  It’s open, and there are no covers, lies, or stories.  It is what it is.  Everything about him is like that.  Everything he has is simple, frugal, practical, and well used.  His cotton bedding is coarse to her skin that’s only known silk and satin.  So are his clothes that she borrows.  Those calluses on his fingers are rough, too.  So are his scars.  He has many of them.  Burrowed into the warmth of his naked body the morning after they found each other, she runs her fingers lightly over the ridges of skin on his chest and legs, tracing his truths as well.  He’s not ashamed of them, not even the massive one on his leg that heralds the most devastating of injuries.  He says he was a soldier, and he got hurt fighting.  He can’t fight anymore.  It’s a stark contrast, the creamy perfection of her skin to the marred, battered appearance of his.  His small, quiet world against the chaos of hers.  She likes the dichotomy more than she can say.  He’s unlike anything she’s ever known.  The men in her life…  They’re not all vain or arrogant, but she’s experienced plenty of that.  Again it’s the shallowness, the insincerity, the ultimate goal of _making the most money_ or _being the best._   Fame and notoriety.  He’s nothing like that.  _Humble._

So they have their love affair.  It’s fiery and hungry at times.  It’s slow and tender at others.  For two days she stays at his apartment.  He cooks for her, inelegant fair that tastes better than anything she’s ever had.  Boldly she steps outside on his arm, dressed in clothes he borrows from his friend’s apartment next door.  They belong to said friend’s younger sister who stays over occasionally.  As they slowly walk through Brooklyn, she’s afraid at first, but her fear turns into excitement as she realizes that _no one notices her._   It’s liberating.  They get lunch.  Ice cream.  They laugh and flirt with each other in public, and no one cares.  She can’t remember the last time she went out without a swarm of paparazzi following her, without fans seeing her, without her life constantly suffocating her.  _So liberating._   Again it’s nothing she’s known in so long, and he’s so good to her.

They laugh and play and talk and make love.  No cares.  No concerns.  No questions or obligations or lies she has to live or enthusiasm she has to fake.  She forgets about it all.  The appointments and interviews.  The rehearsals.  _The Black Widow._ She forgets about it all and lets herself embrace the fantasy.  She feels free and new.

One night he takes her to the roof of his building, a quiet place only he ever goes.  It’s tall enough that she can see the bridge and across the river.  The view of the city is amazing.  Distant.  Once more she’s on the outside, looking in.  Another hidden sanctuary.  “It’s so peaceful up here,” she comments, leaning into the railing at the top of the building.  She luxuriates in the feel of the cool evening breeze, the sounds of the city a pleasant hum all around her.  “So beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful,” he corrects.  He’s brought up a picnic basket, a blanket on which they’ll sit, and a bottle of champagne.  “Do you have any idea how much?”

She smiles a flirty smile, looking over her shoulder at him.  “Tell me.”

He comes up behind her, whispering into her ear.  “I’ll show you.  When I close my eyes, you’re what I see.  When I breathe, you’re what I taste and feel.  You’re in every part of me.”  She hums in appreciation, melting into his embrace.  “I want to draw you, put all this perfection to paper so I’ll never be able to forget it.  I want to keep you forever.”

 _Forever._   The fantasy grows and she eagerly lets it.

They have their picnic.  The champagne is cheap but the best he could afford, and the dinner is simple.  It’s perfect, though.  Private and secluded.  Afterward, she dances for him, a light, happy routine from a ballet she did back before she became so famous.  She’s twirling and spinning and leaping across the roof, fluid and free.  He watches, enamored with her, the moonlight bathing him in a beauty all his own.  She dances like she hasn’t in years, like she did before the world turned crazy and difficult, and her heart swells with love and passion, and her body sings.  She loses herself to it completely, loses herself for him because suddenly he’s the only audience that has ever mattered.  And when she’s done, he takes her, lays her down on their blanket with so much gratitude and awe, like he hasn’t realized just what she can do.  Just how fast and gracefully she can move.  Just how powerful she is.  He makes love to her, and she’s never felt more herself.

It’s a beautiful, beautiful dream.

She thinks it can last.

* * *

He goes out.  She stays behind.  She still feels light and airy, at home in this small space with his drawings everywhere.  As promised, he’s added pictures of her now, rough sketches that he’s drawn while she’s slept in his bed, while she’s gazed at that distant Manhattan skyline, while she’s laughed and danced.  The long lines of her body.  Her legs and hands.  Her eyes.  Her smile.  That adoration, that _reverence_ , is so clear in them, and though she’s been photographed by some of the best artists worldwide, these simple works are more meaningful and telling.  They’re real.  So she looks them over, wearing only one of his shirts, leafing through the papers on his work desk.  She glances through the bookcase to its left, which is filled with novels and nonfiction alike.  On the lower right there’s a small velvet box.  It’s dusty, buried under some old papers and newspaper clippings.  Maybe it’s not right to be snooping.  She knows him, and he knows her, in some ways more intimately than any truths could tell.  Still, there are some secrets.  Unspoken boundaries.

She takes the box anyway, because she is who she is.  As she does, she knocks the papers to the floor.  The headline on the weathered newspaper page is striking.  “CAPTAIN AMERICA WOUNDED”.  She crouches, picking it up.  It’s a story about him, Captain Steve Rogers.  _Steve._   He’s more than a soldier.  He’s a war hero.  She’s figured as much, though he hasn’t said it.  Now she reads the details about which she hasn’t thought to ask.  He led his company against a terrorist cell in Afghanistan three years ago.  He saved over two dozen people, single-handedly rescuing hostages and getting his men to safety.  That was where he’d been so badly hurt, shot and struck with shrapnel from an IED, but it’s not the first time he’s been wounded in the line of duty or gone to extraordinary lengths to protect other people.  That’s why he was called what he was called during the war.  _Captain America._

Not a nobody at all, it seems.  A legend.

Somehow this leaves her unsettled, particularly when she opens that box and sees what’s inside.  It’s a medal, a gold star with a light blue ribbon.  She’s not familiar with this, but when she reads a little further, things about how long he was in the army hospital in Virginia and how the doctors were barely able to save his leg, she sees he was awarded the Medal of Valor right before being honorably discharged from the army due to medical disability.  Suddenly she imagines that this must have been like.  No fanfare.  No accolades.  Having served his country, left to muddle through with a lamed leg and a body covered in scars.  A life spent struggling, both with his injury and his inability to fight any longer.  He can’t run.  He can’t fly.  _He can’t._

She feels something she hasn’t felt in a long time.  _Shame._

He comes back a little later, bearing a pedestrian dinner of pizza and pasta, and he sees what she’s found.  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks softly.  She’s not sure if she feels angry or betrayed or if she even has the right to feel either.  She knows she feels incredibly sorrowful.

He stares a moment, surprised, and then sets things down.  “Does it matter?”

It shouldn’t.  She knows that.  Those unspoken boundaries.  They’re there for a reason, and they’ve both been comfortable with them.  She’s getting what she wants and needs from this.  He must be, too, because he’s let it continue.  Those boundaries are blurring, though, and she’s not sure she can see clearly anymore.  “You’re…  You’re a hero.”

“I don’t see it that way,” he responds.  He crosses the room, leaning heavily on his cane, and takes the box from her.  He closes it and puts it right back into its dusty corner.  “And even if I was, I’m not anymore.”  There’s something in his voice she can’t read.  These last days, she’s always been able to figure him out.  His open eyes.  His heart on his sleeve.  His feelings in his voice and his respect for her in his hands.  _Reverence._   Now he’s like a book that’s been slammed shut.  “This wasn’t about our pasts.”

“No, but–”

“Why are you here, Nat?” he finally asks.  Since that first night, he hasn’t.  “Why?”

She can’t lie.  Not now.  Not when she’s seen how much he’s sacrificed to do good.  What has she done?  Her extravagant, flashy life.  Her posh things and rich existence.  Accolades and adulation.  The masks she wears and the dances she does.  What _good_ has she done?

Nothing like this.

His voice softens.  “What are you running from?”

 _She can’t lie._   “ _The Black Widow._ ”  It’s clear he doesn’t understand.  She turns away, folding her arms across herself because his apartment is suddenly cold and barren.  “Tonight I’m supposed to dance in an exclusive premiere at the Met.  It’s the biggest show of the season.  _The Black Widow._   A ballet based on _Swan Lake_ , on the black swan.  Do you know it?”  He shakes his head.  “Traditionally she is the daughter of an evil sorcerer.  She’s beautiful but cunning, a seductress who lures a heroic prince into a spell.  She’s a counterpart to the purity of the good princess, the white swan.  In the new production, the black swan character has been transformed to take center stage.  She’s an assassin of sorts, set against the backdrop of a feudal war.  She uses the men around her as she needs to better her own position during the fight, and then she destroys them.  Lust and lies.  Selfishness.  She’s incapable of love.  That’s the sort of thing that sells, that excites people.”  She hears the roar of the crowd.  A standing ovation.  Fans screaming at another premiere.  The cameras stealing her, a piece at a time.  “In the end, she meets a man who finally gets into her heart.  A good man.  She learns to love in his arms.”  She turns, and her eyes glitter with tears.  “But it’s too late.  She has a chance to try to stop what she’s done, but she doesn’t take it.  Though it kills her, she turns her back.  She can’t stop what she’s set in motion.  She gets everything she wanted, but she loses him.  Heartbroken, she dies.”

After a silent moment, he softly said.  “It’s just a dance.”

How many times has she told herself?  _It’s just a dance.  It’s just a movie.  Another premiere.  Another red carpet.  Another press junket and party and date and lie._ “It’s not!  They wanted _me_ for this role!  Don’t you get it?  Immediately and without audition.  My agent agreed without even asking me because I was perfect for it!  And the publicity will be amazing.  They wanted me because this is _who I am_.  What I do.”  She feels her eyes burn.  “What I’ve done.  Used people.  Lied.  Done what I needed to to put myself on top.  I’ve been selfish.  Even now…”  _No.  That’s not what this is._ “I take because I can.   I make myself into what you want to see.  I’m the best in the world at it.”

The silence feels crushing.  She wonders for a moment, with the truth out there at long last, if this will be the end.

But it’s not.  He comes closer, his breath a soft gust against the crown of her head, and grips both her shoulders in his huge hands.  He turns her to face him.  “You’re not this Black Widow.”  She struggles against herself, against him, because she can’t believe that so easily.  She can’t escape, though.  He’s too strong, and she doesn’t really want to.  “You’re not this… _diva._   Maybe I still don’t know anything about… about the world you left behind, the life you live.  Maybe we’re not the same.  But I know that.  I see _you_.”

“I won’t dance it,” she whispers.  _I can’t now._

“Then don’t.  Stay with me,” he says.  “I loved being a soldier.  It was a way I could help, do something to protect people.  But…  I lost everything.  Back then…  I know I did what was right, but…  When I ran in there to get those people out, I knew that was going to be it.  I knew it.”  She’s never heard so much pain in his voice.  He’s always been so calm, so steady.  Now it’s open, how much he’s given up.  “But now you’re here.  I don’t care how or why.  Please stay with me.”

“I’ll stay,” she gasps, kissing him passionately.  “I’ll stay!”

He reaches behind her, grasping her bottom and lifting her against him.  She goes eagerly, capturing his lips and wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck.  He staggers to his bed.  He nearly falls when his leg fails him but he doesn’t.  He never does.  He sets her down beneath him, the weight and heat of his body intoxicating, and her fingers shake as she fumbles with his belt and jeans.  They shake because she knows this is beyond a dream now.  Beyond a silly fantasy or a selfish escape.  Beyond boundaries.  Beyond lies and truths.  Beyond lovers.  Maybe it always has been.  Maybe the only one she’s been fooling this time is herself.

_“I love you.”_

He pulls his shirt off her to bare her to him, but she’s the one who worships him now, as she kisses every scar on his body like she can make them disappear.

* * *

_Nothing lasts forever._

Later, as they lay sweat-slicked, sated, and contented, tangled in the sheets and in each other and lazing in that place between pleasured sleep and unbothered awareness, there’s a knock at his door.  It’s like thunder.  He sits up, brow furrowed in confusion.  Her heart’s pounding in fear as he gets out of bed, pulling his boxers and jeans on with some difficulty.  He dons his shirt, grabs his cane, and crosses the small distance from his bedroom to the door.

Her eyes close in the sharpest disappointment she’s ever known when she hears a familiar voice in the hall.  _They found me._

Her agent barges in.  He’s furious with her, and with good reason.  She’s practically laid her career to waste.  She’s broken contractual obligations for her movie’s premiere.  She’s missed dress rehearsals, interviews, important dinners and soirees.  The few days she has spent in this secret, simple world have been devastating to the one she left behind.  “Are you crazy?” he yells as she dresses in front of him.  It’s not like he hasn’t seen her like this before.  “Are you trying to ruin your career?  You’re lucky I found you here!  You’re lucky cameras follow you, even when you think they’re not!”

“Don’t,” she warns.

His anger is palpable.  “The Met was about ready to eat out of your palm!  And tomorrow we’re due in Paris and Rome and then Moscow.  You _know_ that.”  She flinches.  She did know.  She hasn’t cared.  “Dance companies all over the world are falling over themselves for you.  If _The Black Widow’s_ star rises, yours will, as well, even higher than it is now.  The possibilities are endless!  Embodying a role like that will define you even more.  You can have anything, _be_ anyone!  What’s the matter with you?  That’s what you wanted!”

“I don’t want it anymore.”

“After all the hard work you’ve done, all the sweat and tears you’ve poured into making yourself into what you are–”

“What am I?” she demands, eyes flashing.  “The Black Widow?”

Her agent takes a step back.  He’s not daunted, though.  “No.  You’re one of the world’s leading actresses and the best ballerina of modern times.  People adore you for your grace and beauty, for how you can bring the illusions to life.  Clearly you need a reminder of what that means if I’m finding you here, hiding from the pressure.  Hiding in a place like this.  You’re throwing it all away, Natalia.  The money.  The fame.  The _power._   The life we’ve built for you together!  You’re _here,_ scared to death with a complete stranger.  This is a fling, like so many others you’ve had!”  She flinches again, and her anger burns hot because _that’s not true_.  But she can’t bring herself to argue.  And her agent, too, doesn’t know who Steve is.  He doesn’t know what they feel for each other, what they’ve shared.  It’s far beyond their bodies.  It’s beyond dreams and hopes.  _Love._

For his own part, Steve stands coolly, leaning on his cane.  Failing to get a reaction, her agent huffs a sigh.  “You must be there tonight.  If you’re not…”  The man leaves that threat unfinished.  And he leaves them lost and hurting.

They’re alone again, but nothing is the same.  She feels it inside, this aching, hollow place where all that wonder and splendor was a moment before.  She turns to Steve.  She can see it in his eyes even before he says anything.  She’s not going to _let_ him say anything!  “No,” she gasps, and she’s in his arms, clinging to him.  “No, it’s not true.  You’re not just–”

“I know.”

“I’m not going!  I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to,” he whispers.

“You told me to stay!”

“I was being selfish.”

“No, Steve.  No!  You’re the most selfless person I’ve ever met–”

His fingers sweep down her face.  Again with that reverence.  “I wanted to keep all this beauty and fire and _perfection_ all to myself.  You flew into my life, made me remember what it was like to have something worth fighting for, and I thought it was okay to _have_ you.  But it’s not, is it?”  She wants to argue, to rail, to scream, but her voice doesn’t work.  “I… I didn’t see what this was until now.  I didn’t see who you were.”

“I’m not Black Widow!”

“No, but you’re a dancer and an actress.  The role doesn’t define you.  You define it.”  She shudders through a sob into his chest.  “Sometimes being a hero means letting go of what you aren’t meant to keep.”  He shivers a bit.  “And sometimes it means running headfirst into doing what you’re meant to do.”

She can’t accept that.  “I’ll quit,” she promises.  “After this season, I’ll quit.  Or you can come with me.  Be with me.  It’s my life, and I’ll decide who’s a part of it!  I know it’s a lot to ask, but–”

“I’ll only slow you down.”  His voice is soft and accepting.  Certain.  His fingers weave through her hair.  “And I could never ask you to sacrifice what you love for me.  I’ve seen you live, Nat.  I’ve seen the good you do.  I’ve seen you dance.”

“No,” she moans.  “I love you!”

“I love you, too.  That’s why I have to do this.  It’s the right thing to do.”  She squeezes her eyes shut, but the tears bleed from them into his shirt all the same.  He breathes, slowly and deeply, and she lets the moment, the warmth, the security and comfort, consume her.  They linger a long time, his arms tight around her, her cheek to his chest.  To his heart.  Then he sighs a quivering breath into her hair.  “I’ll take you back.”

* * *

The cab pulls in front of the Met.  She’s beside him in the back, dressed as she should be in a beautiful gown.  It’s a shimmering black, sleek and elegant and extremely expensive.  Once she contacted her agent to inform him she was returning, things moved very quickly.  The dress was sent to Brooklyn.  Her agent offered to dispatch make-up artists and hair stylists also, but she refused.  She did all of it herself, smoothing her hair into a sleek bun, painting her face into the picture of refinement.  She doesn’t care if it’s up to people’s expectations.  They can see her flaws.

The biggest of them now is the distance between her and the man she has so suddenly come to love.  It’s only a foot maybe, the same as it was the night she flew into his arms, but now that gap is infinite and she cannot close it.  She knows he’s right.  That’s the worst part.  She can’t run away, can’t give this up, and she doesn’t know if he can come with her.  She loves to dance.  It is her passion, her purpose.  The way she changes the world.  And she is flawless in that, if nothing else.

He’s quiet.  He hasn’t said a word since he saw her emerge from the bedroom of his apartment where she dressed and readied herself alone.  When he looked upon her then, she found that same reverence, the appreciation, the love.  Now he’s still, and he’s not looking at her.  She doesn’t think he can, like it’s taking all of his will power to do this and should he so much as glance at her, his strength will fail him.  Hers is going to fail her, as well.  When she ran from this world, sought pleasure and freedom elsewhere, this wasn’t what she thought would happen.  She didn’t expect this.  _Him._ Validation.  Acceptance.  So much more than what she wanted.  And there’s pain.  She feels that the most.  Pain and grief. 

Looking back, though, she reminds herself that things happen for a reason.

Outside the crowd is waiting.  There’s a huge mob of reporters, of the paparazzi with their endlessly flashing cameras.  The red carpet extends to the Met, where she will go inside, change into her costume, and dance the opening night of this ballet.  She’s not sure she’s ready.  Despite all the practice, the talent, the confidence she once had…  She’s not sure she can do this.  She’s not sure she can dance _The Black Widow._

But he finally reaches over.  His hand takes hers, and again they weave together as though they are meant to fit.  His other hand gently turns her face back towards his, away from the chaos awaiting her.  “I want you to have this,” he says, and he reaches inside his well-worn leather jacket.  Out comes the velvet box.  Now she knows what’s inside.  He lifts her hand, opening her palm, and takes the medal from it.  The gold star settles into her hand, the blue ribbon falling atop it, and he closes her fingers.  He smiles, though she can see it kills him.  “So that you’ll remember.”

She knows she can’t forget.  He draws her into a kiss, timid at first like their first kiss was but quickly turning fuller and more passionate.  She lingers in it as long as she can, savors it like the last sip of a glass of wine or the last touch of a decadent dessert to her tongue.  Eventually he pulls back and cups her face.  “I know I will.  I’ll remember everything.  When I close my eyes.  When I breathe.  You’re in every part of me.  The way you kiss.  The way you look.  The way you dance.”  He kisses her again, slowly and sweetly.  He smiles when it’s over.  She does, too.

_Run.  Fly._

She opens the door and steps out onto the street.  Immediately the crowd roars, and the cameras flash so quickly and so much that the night nearly turns into day.  She holds the medal tighter in her hand, draws a deep breath into her lungs.  Her life as she left it stretches before her.  It’s vast and full of promise, the promise he gave her.  Still, she falters once, turns once to look behind her.  The door’s shut, and he’s there behind the glass, beautiful, perfect, and smiling still.

_Dance, Nat._

She doesn’t look back again.

**THE END**


End file.
